Devon Monk - Cold Copper

The child did not appear to hear him.

“It’s okay,” Rose said. “You can turn your hands up now.”

The boy turned his hands so they faced skyward.

Bryn drew the brush across each of his tiny palms.

The dust in the boy’s hands turned black.

“Strange touched,” Bryn said, as he replaced the brush and jar into his pack, then used a cloth to wipe the boy’s hands clean.

“We knew that, didn’t we?” Rose asked. “That a Strange somehow put them in that cave?”

“Yes,” Alun said. “But the child is still Strange touched, under Strange influence. This isn’t a spell, this isn’t a daze. A Strange is doing something, at this moment, to keep these children dreaming.”

“Can we find it?” she asked. “Use that dust to track the Strange?”

“The dust won’t work on anything but skin,” Bryn said. “We’d need Mr. Hunt.”

“No,” Cadoc said. “His brother. I believe his brother may have answers we need.”

“We can’t take all these children rambling around looking for Mr. Hunt,” Rose said. “They’re in their nightclothes and most of them don’t have shoes. We need a safe and warm place for them to rest while we sort out how to undream them.”

“The church?” Bryn suggested.

“Too far,” Alun said. “And likely under gunfire or burning down.”

Those casual words hit Rose like a hammer at her chest. “Lee,” she breathed. “Lee is in there.”

“We passed a warehouse a while back,” Bryn said, mostly ignoring her. “Room enough for the young folk.”

“Quickly,” Cadoc suggested. “Winds are changing. Men are coming.”

Alun’s head snapped up, as if he too had suddenly sensed a change riding the breeze. “Let’s get them out of the weather,” he said. “Rose, are you coming?”

She took a step or two away, but the little girl clung tightly to her hand. “You can take the children,” Rose said. “That’s what you promised. And now we’re in town.” She shook her hand, trying to dislodge the little girl, but the girl would not let go.

“Please,” Rose said. “I have to go to him. I have to know if Lee is all right.” She took a few more steps and all the children walked with her, surrounding her like hands trying to warm to a fire.

“They’re following you, Rose,” Alun said. “They see you, they hear you. They don’t hear us. It was your hand that freed them, and they must know it. Wherever you go, they will follow.”

A hundred children. No shoes, thin shirts and pants, some in only nightdresses. No hats. They were shivering, though they didn’t seem to notice and did nothing to warm themselves.

Hink, at least, had a gun and a quick wit to defend himself with. The children were completely defenseless.

“Where is the warehouse?” Rose asked.

Bryn pointed toward the buildings a ways off behind them. “Just about a block that way. Saw it from the rooftop.”

“Far enough into town the law will find us?” Rose asked.

“Probably,” Alun agreed.

“Good,” Rose said, setting her shoulders. “Let’s go. Now.”

Cedar was cold, bootless, hurting, and angry. None of that got in the way of his aim. The hard crack of his rifle fire slapped against the snow-covered stones.

Vosbrough threw himself to the side. Too late to dodge it completely, he fouled the shot and took the bullet in the shoulder instead of the head. He grunted and stumbled over stone, then fell to the ground.

Which was fine with Cedar. He didn’t want to kill him. Yet.

Cedar strode over to the mayor. “Don’t make me unload this into your head,” he said. “Keep your hand away from your gun and release Mae. Now.”

The matic stood still. The Strange inside the globe of glim in its chest was a ghoulish tatter of white smoke with two mouths and no eyes. It was also frozen.

The matic and Strange were bound by the spell Mae had cast. It was all that was keeping the matic from firing its weapons.

Vosbrough leaned on his knees and one hand, the other still fisted, clenched around the spell that was choking Mae. Killing Mae.

“It would be no disappointment for me to see your guts spread across this snowy ground,” Cedar said. “Drop the spell.”

Vosbrough stared up at Cedar and the hatred that creased his face spread out into a smile even more vicious. “You do not know whom you threaten,” he said, “nor what you have walked into, Mr. Hunt. I have seen to your death. You just don’t know it yet. Step away from this fight. Now.”

“This gun,” Cedar raised the barrel even with Vosbrough’s head, “is all the wisdom I need. Release her.”

Vosbrough looked between Cedar’s eyes and the muzzle of the gun. He uncurled his fingers.

Mae gasped and took several long, grating breaths. Cedar didn’t turn to look at her.

Vosbrough was wounded, and only more dangerous because of it. Cedar knew better than to turn his back on him. Instinct told him there was more about the man he didn’t know. And he was not inclined to ignore his gut feelings about the man.

“You know what they say about you, Mr. Hunt?” Vosbrough asked, his voice strong, even though blood soaked the dark wool of his coat over his shoulder.

“They say you killed your wife. They say you killed your child. They say you ran from the law and then, when your brother tried to turn you in, you killed him too.”

Cedar’s heart beat harder. None of that was true. Not a word of it. But Vosbrough was telling him the rumor he would spread. Telling him how he would ruin his life.

“They’re wrong,” Cedar said.

“Are they?” Vosbrough shook his head. “Well, I suppose they are wrong about one thing. You haven’t killed your brother. Until today. And I will make sure everyone knows. Every lawman, every court, every desperado with a gun will know. As of this moment, as long as you live, you will have a price on your head, Mr. Cedar Hunt.”

Cedar chuckled, a low rumble. “If that is the worst you can do, Mr. Vosbrough, you have vastly underestimated the hardships I have endured.”

“It is only the beginning,” Vosbrough said. “I will tear your world apart like a crow picking flesh from bone. Not slowly—no, there’s no need for that. I will destroy you before you have time to realize what you’ve lost.”

“Cedar!” Mae yelled hoarsely. “No!”

The matic turned, so quickly, it was a blur at the edge of his vision. He heard the blast from its gun even before he had thrown himself to the ground, bruising his back and hip in the fall. The heat of blood and pain rolled down his left arm.

He twisted, back flat, and brought his rifle around.

The matic towered over him, Strange heart pulsing with light and flashes of teeth and claws, as the Strange battered the cage that held it. Then the inhuman, unthinking, but horrifyingly graceful hands of the matic manipulated the settings on the gun.

“This is just the beginning of my power,” Vosbrough said as he stood. “There is no force on this earth—man, Strange, matic, or weapon—that can stop me.”

“There is now.” It was Wil’s voice; yet it was not quite Wil’s voice. It was also the voice of the Strange, and the voices of a hundred children crying out.

With no time to think, Cedar trained his gun on Vosbrough.

Too many things happened in too little time. Cedar’s bullet struck Vosbrough in the thigh. The matic’s bullets rained down around him, buffered by a spell of warm wind scented with spring flowers.

A copper bolt of light shattered the day, burning all sight from Cedar’s eyes. The scent of flowers was gone, replaced by the searing copper stink of hot blood.

Cedar pushed himself up, away, scrambling to get out of the line of fire, out of the reach of the matic.